


running through your veins

by haloud



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Drunken Shenanigans, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-12 15:53:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19948849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haloud/pseuds/haloud
Summary: Kyle doesn't usually drink at the Wild Pony, but some nights he'd rather not drink alone. More often than not, Guerin is there too.





	running through your veins

**Author's Note:**

> for rnm week day 3 -- quick and dirty. title comes from body language and bad habits by just surrender
> 
> this fic is not for redistribution without my express permission.

On days like this where Kyle spends five hours saving a single life, he celebrates by getting outrageously drunk and, more often than not, getting off with a random stranger in the backseat of his car. If anyone asks where he’s been, he says he’s “reminding himself he’s alive,” which—since it’s usually his mom doing the asking—earns him rolled eyes and a smack to the back of the head. But guess what, _mom._ He’s a grown man now, and he’s not scared of the safe sex lecture she would always gleefully use as a punishment if he got caught sneaking around with girls. Grinning against the rim of his glass, Kyle knocks back another shot of tequila.

He doesn’t usually drink at the Wild Pony, if only because DeLuca doesn’t like him; he knows she overcharges him and sticks the extra cash in a donation jar. And hey, he can’t really blame her, but the atmosphere generally isn’t so good for his party of one. Tonight, though, he can’t stop rubbing his fingers together to remind himself the gloves are off, can’t stop smelling blood. Drinking alone isn’t really so appealing, no matter how loud he turns up the music, so the Wild Pony it is

His wild night, turns out, even comes with a show. He watches for about an hour, getting increasingly wasted, as Michael Guerin successfully bilks Racist Hank out of two hundred dollars.

Part of him wants to blame the tequila for the way he blushes every time Guerin lays himself languid and slow over the pool table, giving Kyle a perfect view of his ass under soft old denim jeans, shirt riding up to show the smooth skin of his waist. DeLuca does keep some damn good tequila on the shelf, but Kyle prides himself on being man enough to—eventually—own up to the handies he traded with his roommate sophomore year at Michigan, so he’s not going to wuss out now. He props his elbows on the bar and rolls a shot glass between his hands. His type basically stops at _smart,_ like maybe med school broke something in his brain after it rendered him incapable of even jacking off without thinking about studying. And Guerin’s definitely that, Kyle thinks, thumbing his bottom lip. Last time he broke down and drank at the Pony, he had front row seats to another occasion when Guerin took Hank for all he was worth after Hank dared him to get viciously drunk, go outside, and take his engine apart, which Guerin did, then put it back together so fast it was damn near superhuman.

So Guerin’s got one point in the brains column and a question mark under the “anatomy class” column, but is it enough to balance out the inherent negatives of hooking up with a local? When your mom is the sheriff, that can get ugly quick, and Kyle is, like, way too drunk to work out the math right now, so he just waves his hand at the non-DeLuca bartender because more tequila will definitely help him make a decision.

(Maybe Maria would like him better if he learned the names of her employees.)

(…Nahhhhhh.)

“I’m cutting you off,” DeLuca interrupts, appearing seemingly out of nowhere to shoo her bartender away.

“DeLucaaaaaaa,” Kyle whines, and he squishes his cheek against the bar which smells—Kyle sniffs—reassuringly of Pine-sol and spilled beer, and nothing at all like copper or bleach.

“Nope, nn-mm, no way, McDreamy. Your money’s not good enough to make me deal with your mama when she has to scrape you off the floor.”

At the mention of his mother, Kyle tries to snap himself up into better posture, but his biggest success is not falling backwards off the barstool. Combing his fingers through his hair, he looks around frantically and tries to just look _regular_ drunk. DeLuca snorts out a laugh, not a real one but not a mean one either.

“She’s not here _yet._ But it’s only a matter of time before Guerin starts throwing punches, so. Sheriff’s son’s gotta go, or else I’m borrowing trouble.”

Kyle spins around to look out at the bar, and sure enough, he peers across the room to the pool tables, where Guerin is grinning kinda sleepy and dangerous with his hands in the air, nearly chest to chest with a red-faced Hank.

Nnnh. He doesn’t want to see any violence, bruises, bloody lips. Not tonight. He slides off the stool, grabs the bar to right himself, and wobbles as he straightens up. Hehe. _Straightens._ Just ‘cause his Guerin-boner went away doesn’t mean it’s not still funny.

“Valenti, _what the hell are you doing.”_ DeLuca hisses as Kyle staggers away. He flaps his hand behind himself in a way he hopes is reassuring, because he’s totally got this.

“You guys done with the table?” He says loudly, pointedly _not_ tripping on anything as he crosses the floor. Hank sneers at him and says something foul, but what’s _he_ gonna do? Kyle’s got dirt on that guy, uh-huh, and he’s got a bunch of codes, but the football team bro-code shit is _way_ past its expiration date. Hank tries to, like, loom over him as Kyle leans on a pool cue to hide his swaying back and forth, and that’s _definitely_ annoying, but Kyle’s more concerned with the way Guerin bares his teeth and the way it’s both scary and really hot.

“Why, you lookin’ for a game? At least I know you can afford the buy in, Doc.” Guerin drawls.

“I don’t have any cash. And I don’t know how to play pool, because beer pong is the real man’s game. But here.” He fumbles his wallet out of his pocket and slaps it down on the wooden edge of the table. “I’ll open a tab if you wanna give lessons ‘stead of sleeping in a cell tonight. And making me talk to my mom when I’m wasted,” he adds mournfully, rubbing his hand over the chalky end of the cue. Even drunk, he doesn’t miss the way Guerin’s eyes flick briefly to the motion. Nice.

“You’re a fucking idiot, you know that? God damn, I come to this bar to _avoid_ people like you; aren’t you late to get your chest waxed or some shit?” Guerin snaps, and _hey,_ it’s none of Guerin’s business (yet) what parts of him are or aren’t waxed professionally. But guess what, Kyle’s already winning, because Guerin doesn’t even blink when Hank fucks off to do Racist Hank things somewhere else, even though that’s the fight he was spoiling for walking away.

“I mean…I can just leave if you’re not looking for easy money…and not looking to show off”

“I’d have to be as drunk as you are right now to take you up on this, and I don’t think that’s even _possible_ for me. Buzz off, Valenti.”

“I gave you an open opportunity to try,” Kyle points to his wallet still perched between them. “C’mon, Guerin. One game. You can kick my ass like you never actually got to in high school! Call it cth—caht— _catharsis.”_

Nailed it.

“ _Fine.”_ Guerin ticks his jaw, runs his tongue over his teeth, and it makes Kyle all warm and tingly even as Guerin snatches the cue out of his hand. “ _One_ game. And if you can’t beat me after that, you’re gonna be losing a lot of fucking money, Valenti.”

One game turns into two, actually, and is Kyle learning anything with Guerin hot like a fever—and maybe it’s just the flush of the alcohol, but being all over him feels like burning up—moving his arms and pressed up against his back? No, not really. But it turns out Guerin’s not so bad when he shakes out his curls and laughs around the mouth of a bottle of beer like he can’t believe himself for spending time with Kyle of all people, especially a version of Kyle so uncoordinated he can barely wrap his brain around the concept of breaking, like, in general, let alone any of the trick shots Guerin is easily enticed into demonstrating with the fluid grace of a truly practiced drunk.

They aren’t buddies; even if they did see each other outside of the Pony, they wouldn’t acknowledge each other at all. Kyle doesn’t start going to the bar more frequently, either, not to seek Guerin out or for any other reason. But if every now and then he feels like some drunk company and the night ends up with Kyle’s wallet feeling light and him on his back in the bed of Guerin’s truck?

Well.

Ain’t life worth living after all?

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't totally decided yet whether or not this should be a prequel of sorts to open up your eager eyes but it's a distinct possibility
> 
> tumblr @ cosmicsolipsism  
> discord @ haloud


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